X Marks The Spot
by Polskavitch
Summary: On their first case together in Oregon, Scully gets used to life as partner to Agent Fox Mulder. The beginning of a beautiful friendship.


**x Marks The Spot**

By Polly Hawcroft

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A short story which imagines what might have happened during Mulder and Scully's first case together in the episode, 'Pilot', set in Bellefleur, Oregon. Spooked by the mysterious marks found on the bodies of several alleged UFO abductees, Scully discovers similar marks on her own back while relaxing in her motel room and panics...

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Dana Scully slipped around the motel door, pushed it shut and then leaned against the varnished wood with a satisfied sigh. The day had gone well, and she had left her new partner, Agent Fox Mulder, for the evening on the step of his own room a few doors up. Mulder's advice had been to get a shower after their drenching in the cold Oregon rain, wrap up warm and review case notes before the next day (she _had_ to remember to use his surname she prodded herself mentally, calling him Fox had caused an almost allergic reaction in the guy, something which quietly amused Scully as she saw a flicker of teenage petulance flash across his features, the resentment towards his parents for the unusual first name clearly still a sore point).

She grinned at the mental image of him holding up a Vulcan salute, fingers split into a v-shape, as he smiled and backed into his room minutes before. She already liked him, she had decided that the moment she had stepped into his cluttered FBI, basement office and saw a mess of crime scene photographs, newspaper clippings, marker streaked printouts and push-pinned maps laying on his desk, stuck on a whiteboard and stacked on top of the large metal filing cabinets ominously marked 'X Files'. Mulder had peered up at her with an amused smirk, disarming her attempt at a more conventional, professional introduction, and had launched into a sarcastic welcome speech about how she was about to join the 'FBI's most unwanted'. Since that first meeting Scully had realised that nothing Mulder did, personally or professionally could exactly be classed as 'conventional'. Her superiors had been very clear that Mulder was a bit of a 'rogue genius', a criminal behaviour analyst of great talent who had been sidetracked by a fascination for the Paranormal, and more specifically UFO-lore. They wanted Scully to keep an eye on him, apply her rational, medical mind to his flighty, paranoia infused ideas, and basically keep him in check. She had constantly been reminded by those stiff-suited men in command, 'If it looks bad, it's bad for the FBI'. The interviews she had been through had made it repeatedly clear they were worried about a certain Special Agent Fox Mulder's ambitions.

She quickly realised Mulder had sacrificed an apparently easy ascension up the FBI career ladder by following his passion for the Unexplained. In the complex snakes and ladders game of promotions Mulder had stumbled on a big-ass Rattler, sliding all the way down to that gloomy, windowless office, with boxes full of bizarre case files and the sting of the derogatory nickname 'Spooky' trailing behind him. The idea of being assigned to debunk some kind of maverick had filled Scully with a sense of unease and professional discomfort but she justified it to herself by promising she would approach everything Mulder said and did with an open, but rational and scientifically rigorous approach. In this way, she felt she would be fulfilling her duties on both sides, complimenting Mulder's apparently freewheeling style while hopefully validating his theories and research to the suits upstairs. After all, they hadn't closed him down, so someone somewhere must be interested in his work.

This aspect of her new assignment intrigued Scully the most, being partnered with someone who worked outside the lines was something she would never have imagined being comfortable with. It just wasn't her style. But, everything about this was new, her Georgetown apartment, a partner and an office to call home, of sorts. Investigating puzzles and following trails outside the human body, and more often than not, she clenched her teeth, ending up in assorted morgues and hospitals following the clues back to the internal organs and CoDs of unfortunate victims. Disappointing her parents by deciding to give up her medical career to join the FBI had been terrifying at first. But the idea that she could make a difference, not only as a medically trained field agent, but as a woman in the agency, had filled her with excitement and made her feel totally independent for the first time. Unfortunately, it was something her Navy-schooled father had trouble understanding, and although Dana didn't like to admit it, his disapproval had gnawed away at the back of her mind from interview to interview as she got further away from the respected white coat of a medical doctor and closer to the suit, badge and gun of the undeniably chauvinistic FBI in Washington D.C..

Yes, she had liked Mulder on first meeting, she mused, despite his weary sarcasm and ruffled arrogance. Not just because of the clutter that clearly reflected his mental process, but because of his open and deceptively youthful face with its large, brown eyes, and hair which flopped across his brow as he peered down at photographic slides and scribbled on post-its. He seemed to lack that bullish quality found in most career field agents, instead he gave out a sort of wounded sensitivity, a quiet pride in his work backed up with fierce intelligence, and his intensity was clear when he began to show her slides relevant to the case they were now working on. Mulder came alive, rushing to point out details on the overhead projector, coaxing her out of her comfort zone by producing complex diagrams of molecules and chemical compounds and less than five minutes after she had introduced herself, asking earnestly for her thoughts and opinions.

She had noticed his hands, masculine but attractively slender, infectiously animated with the energy of a new case, new leads, and fresh mysteries. She also clocked his reciprocal glances, subtly sizing her up with an appreciative eye, as a work colleague, but also as a man looking at an attractive woman. She had felt an instant chemistry and was pleased to find this continuing as they worked in the field. Mulder's almost emotional connection to the work was something she respected even if her approach was cooler and more pragmatic. She sensed this respect was also mutual, from Mulder's knowledgeable if flippant appraisal of her doctoral thesis on 'Einstein's Twin Paradox' to her sceptical, scientific approach to the more bizarre aspects of this Oregon abduction case they were currently working on. There was a definite electricity between them, and if the reputation of 'Spooky Mulder' had ever caused Scully apprehension, she now felt a distinct sense of guilt at letting herself be affected by such playground sniping from peers and colleagues.

She had found Mulder's habit of calling her by her surname slightly annoying at first as it reminded her of the role calls common to the armed forces described often by her father, and her short, sharp shock of training at Quantico. It was a way of stripping you back to the basics, a puppet with a rifle, worth less than the dog tags hanging around your neck. However she soon realised that to Mulder, who was clearly uncomfortable with his own faintly ludicrous first name, calling her 'Scully' was just his subtle way of reminding her of that fact. By now, however, she was used to 'Dana' being bypassed and was sure it simply represented the comfortable nature of their working relationship, she was also secretly pleased to drop her more feminine first name, hoping that being preceded by 'Agent Scully' might get her more respect from some of the more traditional Police Chiefs and Sheriffs they met on the job.

Scully realised she had been leaning back against the motel room door for so long, she was getting pains from where the mounted placard explaining house rules and fire procedures was digging into her shoulder blades. Peeling off her soggy jacket with a shiver she turned right into her room and switched on a table lamp on the nearest windowsill which immediately warmed up the medium-sized room with its amber glow. She pulled a tie out of her auburn hair and tugged the wet strands loose. Rain-wavy, it bounced messily onto her shoulders. Giving up any attempt at making it look presentable after a couple of cursory swats, she moved into the small bathroom and stepped wearily out of her wet clothes. Jeans, t-shirt and vest kicked aside, Scully reached for the slightly too large, wine-red terry-towel bathrobe on its hook on the back of the bathroom door and wrapped herself up snugly, tying the waistband in a loose knot. The sensation of the soft, feathery fabric against her damp skin brought back a flash of childhood memories.

Her father, home on shore leave for a few precious days. At first formal and taciturn, gradually easing into the wise but playful friend she missed, wrapping her up tightly in fluffy towels, roughly drying her hair until she was breathless and giggly, calling her 'piggy in a blanket' and 'Starbuck' and tickling her toes. Piggy backs upstairs to bed, football games with her brothers in the backyard, BB guns sputtering at tin cans in the undergrowth out back. Then, he would be gone again, her mother would be suddenly grey and distant and somehow life seemed drained of fun and colour. She had felt that same draining of colour as she trained to become a medical doctor. Although she loved everything about solving medical problems, she knew it wasn't enough. She had to use her knowledge in some way instead of sitting at a desk and waiting for people to come to her, instead she wanted to combine it with the curiosity and thirst for knowledge that formed her very core.

Scully twisted her neck, half closing her eyes, feeling the tension ripple through her vertebrae and down into her thighs. She realised that the adrenaline of their earlier excursion was wearing off and the cold rain had driven a chill into her muscles that was beginning to stiffen her up. She padded into the main bedroom and laid her wet clothes over the heater fixed beneath the window. The rain streaked against the glass and she could hear the muted sound of traffic driving carefully along the nearby highway. It was hard to tell if the low-bass rumble from beyond the glass was a truck hauling along the slick road or distant thunder. Out on the forecourt she saw the rain kicked up in the strong wind, ripple and twinkle across the tarmac, the silhouettes of a dozen tall conifers at the periphery of the car park snapped back and forth crazily, the light pollution of a nearby town throwing an orange glow into the murky sky behind them so she thought they almost looked like Indians dancing around a camp fire. She adjusted the blind so that she could no longer see out, the heavy, sodium-light stained clouds were oppressive and she felt the electricity of the storm prickle through the tiny hairs on her arms.

The motel room was small, but adequate. There was a double bed against the right hand wall, covered with creamy yellow bedding and a soft quilted throw of unembroidered beige material. The lamp on the bedside table still had an x-ray of Ray Soames' skull pinned to it, with the mysterious metallic implant glowing in the nasal cavity. Next to the door was a large closet, concealed behind white louver doors, and the walls were dotted with a few, cheaply framed photographs of Oregon landmarks.

Scully took her case notes out of her laptop bag and made herself a cup of coffee with the supplies arranged on a countertop at the rear of the room. The pot of creamer she had to use in place of fresh milk gave her drink a greasy taste, but she was glad of the warmth which spread through her insides and suddenly made her feel dozy.

Settling on the bed, which for a motel was surprisingly firm and comfortable, she slid her laptop out of it's padded bag, flipped it open to a pleasant jingle and waited a few seconds for it to load. Her eyes were straining in the low light so she reached for her glasses from the bedside table. She didn't like to wear glasses, they reminded her of the goggles she wore during autopsies, an aspect of her work she liked to peel off and leave behind as much as possible at the end of the day. Scully settled back, laptop under her hands, and tried to pin down the memories of the day's investigations. She remembered Billy Miles, his face slack and expressionless, grey and spongy like the pillow his head was resting on, the suspicious attitude of local people especially Billy's police chief father, the coffin of Ray Soames tumbling down a grassy slope in obscene slow-motion, scattering sods of earth and splinters of wood, eventually regurgitating its contents; a grey, wizened _creature_, with huge, empty eye-sockets and twisted limbs, Mulder's excitement at spray painting a red cross on the road to mark some kind of bizarre disturbance in atmospheric pressure or time or some damn thing she hadn't understood, that excitement turning to disappointment as she reined him in from the Twilight Zone over and over again.

She shivered, more from her mental images than the cold, the coffee and cosy bathrobe had combined to warm her up to optimum dozing temperature. Scully didn't fight the sleep creeping up on her and soon the laptop was slipping from her relaxed thighs and onto the bed. She fell into a dream.

Dana Scully was looking out into a grey sky that met a featureless horizon, a thin silver line all that distinguished the sky from the flat water she realised she was floating on. She was in a tiny wooden boat, no rudder, no oars, just her, wrapped in thick clothing, alone and surrounded by nothingness. Leaning over the side she saw her reflection. The person that looked back had her eyes but this Scully had a pinched face, weary expression, and longer hair. In her arms there was a blanketed bundle which moved slightly, the fleecy material peeling aside and revealing a small, pink hand, fingers clenched next to the scrunched up face of a tiny baby. Scully gasped and the little boat rocked sending ripples out in concentric circles across the metallic water. When she peered over the other side of the boat, she instead saw a reflection she recognised; deceptively young face, fine nose with a few freckles, long auburn hair and her green eyes brimming with intelligence and curiosity. The little gold cross she always wore around her neck, a gift from her mother, swung into the light and twinkled before she felt it slip over her skin and into the water with a small 'plop!' She jumped, surprised and plunged her hand in after it.

Suddenly she was standing, a large expanse of clean snow between her and a lone figure on the bright horizon. It appeared to be Mulder, and he was struggling to carry something bundled in his arms, something with a definite human shape. Scully tried to walk forwards in an instinctive effort to reach him, but something stopped her. Looking down she saw she held a thick rope in the hand she had just plunged into the water. It was wrapped with algae and weeds and turning to follow it with her eyes, she saw that it stretched back to the same boat she had been sitting in moments before. Inside sat her father who now held the tiny baby close to his chest, the blanket spilling down across his lap. Bill Scully stared out at her, expressionless and silently mouthing words.

Scully turned back towards land. Mulder was getting further away, and she could see him stagger on the icy surface. The rope she held was slimy and wet, making it hard to keep a tight grasp, and she clawed at it desperately, trying to wrap it around her wrists but the snow made it difficult to stand and when she lost her footing suddenly the rope whipped away from her, snaking back into the grey water. The sudden backwards momentum pushed the little boat further away from the shore, her father simply stared forwards, still and silent. Scully felt her heart thumping against her ribs, and with a desperate whimper she shouted, almost yelped, 'William!' across the dead air. The name was the only word in her mind, and at that moment she wasn't sure who she called it out for, the tiny baby who was a stranger to her and yet she felt powerfully certain his own name was 'William', her father Bill or the her new partner, Fox William Mulder. The little boat shrank from view, the grey water appearing thick and heavy like wallpaper paste, peeling back in lazy waves to let the boat slide through it. On the whisper of a breeze she heard the thin, plaintive crying of a baby and felt her heart vibrate with an ache so strong the breath was pulled from her lungs and tears stung the corners of her eyes. She turned away from the beach, and almost on all-fours, clawed her way across the freezing landscape towards the tiny, stooped figure of her new partner.

Scully jumped, a sensation of falling made her grab for the bed, there was a flash, a crackling, her eyes jolted open just as the room she found herself awake in was thrown into darkness. She gasped and froze, bedding clenched in her hands, knees drawn up towards her chest, goose bumps where the robe had fallen open. The ache in her chest was a hangover from her dream, and at first she found it difficult to control her heartbeat. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she heard the howl and hiss of the wind and rain outside. Then the first clap of thunder filled her head. The glass panes in the window rattled, the pressure inside the motel room seemed to have increased and Scully felt an urge to throw open the door and breathe deeply of the damp and ozone despite the wildness of the storm which must be rushing in from the western coast. The thunder rolled overhead, hollow and angry. Her fingers creaked, still twisted in the cloth of the bedspread. Scully felt disorientated, the dream had been so vivid, and now the sensory overload of the storm was making her temples throb. She wished Mulder would come tapping at her door, obviously just as unsettled and spooked as she was. But all she could hear was the steady squealing of the wind, thunder fading into the distance and rain dripping on the porch outside.

There was another flash, Scully winced, clamped her eyes shut and waited for the air to split with thunder, but she quickly realised it was just the power coming back on. With a few uncertain flickers, the lamp and the overhead bulbs in the motel room threw out their tungsten reassurance and she was aware of the laptop, half closed, resting on the bed beside her. She set it in front of her once more and stared at the glowing screen for a second or two, trying to get back into the same stream of thought. There was a strong, roof-rattling gust of wind and once again the lights flickered and died, throwing her into darkness until her eyes were used to the blue glow radiating out from the computer screen. Scully decided now was the time for a shower, before any hot water still in the tank went cold. An icy slap was probably just what she needed to wake her totally from that chilling dream anyway.

Scully found a matchbook printed with the motel's logo in her bedside table drawer and used it to light a pair of candles that were set, probably just as decoration, next to the sink in the small bathroom. The candles threw out enough light to see by, and Scully reached for the shower, twisting the large silver taps until the water came out fast, hissing and steaming. Then, she undid the loose knot in the cord of her robe and let it slip off her shoulders and down to the floor with a soft, fluttering sound. The steam from the shower had blurred her reflection in the mirror and she faced herself in the gentle light, marvelling at how young she looked, how unblemished, how naive. No wonder, she thought, most of her male colleagues had seemed to find her intimidating. Her intelligence, that cool, detached and rational mind of a scientist was shoehorned into the type of body most men couldn't help but objectify. Dana Scully was slightly below average height, but she compensated for this by wearing formidable heels much of the time, combined with a selection of suits that she was perfectly willing to admit gave a masculine thrust to her feminine curves. Deep reds, strong blues, fitted shirts with flared collars, her own version of the standard uniform of the G-man and woman at FBI, but one that allowed her to feel more than just a badge number, it gave a feeling of confidence and control too. She was used to working out, jogging, keeping pace with the guys. That came from having two brothers as much anything else. Despite her capability in all aspects of her new career however, she had still felt at a disadvantage because of her sex. Her colleagues so far had seemed similarly intimidated and struck by a need to protect her and if there was one thing Dana Scully hated it was being patronised.

She realised again that this was something Mulder hadn't done. His humour was dry and often sarcastic and his quips were always erudite, often self-deprecating, but he hadn't made fun of her or belittled her at any point, despite how rigid and stubborn she must have seemed to him, and how _green_. She realised that he had dealt with an incredible amount of incredulity and indeed hostility from his peers and his humorous attitude was a way of rolling with the punches. Despite the way Mulder must feel about her being sent to effectively 'spy on him', it felt like he had been very open with her, shared his thoughts no matter how 'out there', and, she allowed herself to think, he even seemed to enjoy their banter, her counterpoint of hard facts to his savant-like joining the dots. While she often felt like a killjoy for sticking pins in his colourful balloons of hot air, the fact was he seemed to be aware he had needed it. She realised how comfortable this thought made her, the idea of a partnership based in a sense of balance, like identical twins, two halves of one person, completing each others thoughts, inseparable and yet still individually unique. She glanced again at her face in the steamy reflection and was surprised at the smile she saw there.

The room had warmed up while she had been lost in thought, the steam was heavy now and water droplets had begun to slide down the shower curtain. She smeared her forearm across the mirror, and then ran her hands through her still-damp auburn hair, down and over the line of her neck and shoulder blades in an attempt to coax the tension out of her muscles, to confuse her skin into believing she was receiving a massage from someone else. She continued down, gently kneading the skin across her ribs and under her bra, letting her fingers feel the contours under the skin, where the bones ended and the toned muscle began. Her underwear was functional, hardly frilly, but she felt sexy as she thought about removing it and stepping under the hot stream of water. Her right hand slipped around her flank and ran down the small of her back, searching for a sweet spot to unlock the stiffness. She froze, the fuzzy edges of her relaxing mind suddenly diamond sharp with a burst of adrenalin. Her fingers moved across the same spot, and she felt it clearly, two small bumps. Frantically she swiped at the cloudy mirror again, and twisted her torso, trying to get a clear view of the blemish that suddenly terrified her. Images flashed into her mind of the dull eyed Billy Miles drooling in his hospital bed and the manic Theresa Nehmann thrashing on the same hospital's linoleum as Mulder peeled her shirt back to reveal two small marks, marks like she had just found on her own body, symptom or sign of some kind of horrific abduction that had left those young people crushed psychologically and physically.

Her detached scientific mind was losing the battle against paranoia, all of Mulder's theories and speculations flooding her brain. Despite her rejection of his alien abduction suspicions, and his supposed evidence of experiments, tests and mutilations by something 'not human', something had happened to them out on the road tonight, something she sure as hell couldn't explain away as mere 'car trouble', leaving them soaked and stranded with Mulder standing excitedly on his red, spray-paint cross, babbling about losing time with a manic glint in his eyes. Something was certainly drawing those kids to the woods to die. What if the same thing that had left Theresa writhing in pain and terror on a chilly hospital floor was now about to happen to her! The two bumps on her back felt alien to her now, waxy and numb. She realised she was shivering, her teeth clattering together despite the hot steam blurring her vision.

Scully reached down for the robe, threw it over herself and rushed into the bedroom in a cloud of quickly dissipated steam. She fumbled for the light switch, but flicking it was useless, the power had cut out completely, and the dark room was sliced by pale streaks of distant sodium light that fell through the blind from the still rain-soaked parking lot. The throbbing in her temples felt attached to her heart now, her whole body pounding like a double bass being plucked, she just had to get out of this room, shake the images from her mind. She wanted reassurance, or comfort, just proximity to another person to calm her down. She didn't stop for shoes, instead drawing the robe tighter around her, arms crossed over her chest, she opened the motel door and stepped out onto the covered walkway. It wasn't cold exactly but the wind whipped around her calves and flicked her hair into her eyes, making the short journey to Mulder's room uncomfortable.

She stopped outside Fox Mulder's door, she could see a faint flickering light through his window blind from a candle but she had no way of knowing if he was awake this late. She suddenly felt a pang of shame about crumbling under the weight of her own vivid imagination and about the way Mulder might perceive her appearing at his bedroom door semi-naked. She was supposed to be strong, detached, objective, and here she was shivering, her head full of camp-fire spook stories, letting it all get the better of her. Scully took a deep breath and knocked. She saw the light from inside shift, and the blind parted slightly, then the door latch clicked and Mulder was standing before her, candle in his right hand, concerned expression on his face. His hair was slightly ruffled, as if he'd dozed off sitting up and he had unbuttoned and pulled out his light blue, denim top-shirt so that she could see a grey t-shirt underneath.

'Hi!' Mulder cocked his head slightly, asking a silent question.

'I want you to take a look at something.' Scully spoke quickly, her voice sounding small and breathless against the hissing of the rain and wind. They stared at each other momentarily, and then another gust of wind made the candle flicker, the hot wax welled under the flame split slightly and ran over Mulder's thumb. He jumped as if suddenly jolted awake by the quick pain and stepped back, making room for Scully to come inside.

'Come on in...' Scully brushed past and into his motel room as Mulder forced the door closed against the wind, behind her. Her heart was still thrumming against her ribs, but the fear she felt was mixed with a sudden realisation that she was about to strip in front of her new partner, a man whom she barely knew. She just hoped he understood what a leap in trust it represented and that he had the sensitivity to understand how awkward she must be feeling. But even as she formulated those thoughts she already knew the answers to her own questions, she knew because she felt the bond between them already. The trust that came from working together was something that necessarily strengthened with time and shared experience, but somehow she felt like she knew Fox Mulder. Maybe not his motivations, the passions and obsessions that drove him were powerful and seated in several childhood traumas of which, as yet, she was only vaguely aware. But she _knew _she could trust him, she had felt him opening up to her as they had worked this case, testing her, seeing how she reacted to his theories, clearly enjoying how she worked alongside rather than in opposition to him. It seemed to her suddenly that appearing before him like this was perhaps her subconscious way of opening up to him, of allowing herself to be vulnerable, to show him that hard shell was a vital part of her, but that she also needed reassurance. That she wanted a _partner_ and not just a workmate.

Mulder stood back, apparently a little confused as well as worried by her panicky demeanour. He held the candle up high and Scully, who was several inches shorter than him, felt terribly small and cold in just her bathrobe and underwear. She turned away from him and took a deep breath, then peeled back the wine-red robe, letting it fall once more to her feet. Her skin prickled and she gestured with her eyes, trying to lead his gaze down to the undetermined marks she was afraid of.

Fox Mulder peered nervously through the candlelight from a couple of feet away, not quite sure what she was asking of him. It was the first time he'd been alone in a motel room with an attractive and semi-naked woman for several years and he fought the urge to make a jokey comment to take the edge off the atmosphere that had built up in the dark room, sensing that now was not the time for his lame humour. Scully was clearly terrified, he saw the goose bumps on her soft skin, and saw her quivering with a combination of cold and fear. The pause was too much for Scully and she snapped her head around, searching Mulder's face with her own wide, dark eyes.

'What are they?' Her voice was sharp and Mulder heard her breath hitch as she fought back fear, in the few days he had known Dana Scully this was the first time he had seen her show unbridled emotion and he had to admit he was unprepared for it. 'Mulder! What _are_ they?' He felt selfish and guilty for making her wait because of his own embarrassment and overcame his awkwardness, moving closer, going down on one knee and holding the candle up so that he could see what had terrified his new partner so. Highlighted by the shadows thrown by the unsteady flame, Mulder saw three bumps in the small of Scully's back, just above the line of her panties. He placed his fingers gently on her skin, feeling her jump slightly at his touch. One mark was just a small beauty spot, and to the right of that were two circular bumps, raised from the surrounding, perfect skin. They were irritated and angry looking blemishes; _mosquito bites_! He understood why she had been so scared now, and a relieved grin cleared the worry from his features. He began to rise and Scully, still waiting numbly for his answer stared into his eyes desperately.

'They're mosquito bites' he grinned and hoped she didn't misinterpret his nervous chuckle as insensitivity.

'You're sure!?' Scully almost shouted the words as she twisted her neck to look for herself. Sudden relief knocked the breath from her and all she could do was utter a small whimper. Mulder stood up straight again and smiled a little shyly.

'Yeah...I get eaten alive alot myself out there...' Overwhelmed and suddenly aware of her near-nakedness, Scully gathered up her robe in a flash, and not knowing what else to do she buried her face in Mulder's t-shirt, taking him by surprise so that he had to step back to re-balance and stop himself from spilling candle wax all over the motel room carpet. For a few seconds she stayed there, breathing deeply against Mulder's chest, surrounded by his smell and thankful for his warmth, feeling his free hand come around her back tentatively to give her a gentle pat and a squeeze. She noticed his heartbeat which was also quickened, and felt him relax into the embrace, allowing the embarrassment to subside into a mutual hug, a moment of shared comfort. And then she pulled away, letting her bedraggled hair flop down to hide her face, feeling shy again.

'I, I need to sit down.' Scully's voice was a little shaky, the adrenalin was wearing off, and like the storm outside she felt the electricity and tension in the air subside, leaving her chilled and weak. She moved over to a chair behind the door and sat down; drawing the robe around her chest and reaching up to push her hair behind her ear.

'Take your time' Mulder said softly. He moved carefully as if not to jar her nerves further, placed the candle on the small table under the window and took the seat opposite her. For a few minutes they sat quietly, Scully allowing herself to calm down, Mulder sensing her need for silence. It wasn't until he heard her breathing slow to something resembling a normal, relaxed pace that he stood once more. 'Come on Scully. You must be freezing. I'm wearing at least three times more than you and I'm covered in gooseflesh, let's go through to the bedroom, I'll make us coffee and there's a couple of tiny whiskies in my mini-fridge. I don't know about you but I could use a wee dram or two.' He smiled down at her and suddenly realised how that might have sounded like some kind of lame come-on. The embarrassment returned and he reached up to run a hand through his hair, exasperated at his own big, clumsy mouth.

He was surprised to notice a croaky chuckle rise from the small figure in the red robe, and Scully looked up through fluffy, drying auburn hair with a wry smirk. She put out her hand and Mulder took it to help her to her feet, feeling how cold her fingers were. 'See, you're freezing! Come on now I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't offer a pretty, half-dressed, half-popsicle lady the use of my boudoir, would I?' Scully chuckled again and followed him stiffly to the bedroom where he grabbed a thick, creamy coloured blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then placed his candle on the bedside table next to her.

Scully sat on the edge of the bed, then swung her feet up and slid up to rest against the pillows. Mulder's room was a slightly different configuration to hers, but it had the same blind and curtains combination on the large windows. The crazy Red Indians were no longer doing a fire dance outside the window, instead the conifers nodded lazily in the trail end of the storm, the wind was dying down and even though it was still dark there was the faint glow of a sunrise appearing to the east. She heard the tick, tick, tick, of rain dripping from the guttering onto the pavement outside, and Mulder moving around in the next room, clinking miniature spirit bottles and the sound of a kettle rumbling to the boil. She felt suddenly drowsy and content, the urgency and terror of the past half an hour or so fading like the memory of her strange and unsettling dream.

After about ten minutes Mulder came back into the bedroom carrying two small mugs of liqueur coffee. Scully realised the power must be back on if the kettle was working, but he had chosen to keep the lights in the motel room turned off, perhaps to help her nerves, or perhaps to help the atmosphere linger for a while. She had to admit that candle light was soothing with it soft, orange flicker. She felt comfortable; the embarrassment of earlier fading quickly as she sensed Mulder had felt just as awkward and uncertain as her. She knew that because they both felt the same they didn't need to mention it again, the moment was passed, understood, emotions reciprocal. Mulder placed one mug carefully in Scully's hands. Mulder placed his on the floor next to the bed, then, as if realising she didn't want to be alone just yet, he sat down on the carpeted floor, turning so that his head rested on the edge of the mattress. Scully pulled the blanket over her feet and curled around so that she was facing him, resting on her left elbow. She smiled, blushing a little.

'Thank You Mulder.' Scully said quietly. Mulder looked at her steadily and smiled too. His eyes were kind, Scully thought, but full of sadness. He shifted his eyes for a second or two, she couldn't be sure of his expression in the half-light, but she could feel that he was getting ready to tell her something important, something that only an ice-breaker like this evening could bring to the surface fully. Mulder took a sip of his coffee and swallowed, then turned towards Scully again.

'So... I suppose you'd like to know about why I take this alien abduction stuff so seriously? Why we're out here...why you're really down in the basement with 'Spooky Mulder' and his X-Files?' Scully looked down at Mulder, he was smiling but his tone had a bitter edge to it now. She nodded slowly, wrapping her fingers firmly around the little coffee cup that rested on the quilt, and settled back against the pillows of Mulder's bed.

Outside, the low clouds remaining from the storm began to stain dark pinkish red as the sun rose to the horizon.

_**The End**__...or rather, the beginning!_

_Copyright Polly Hawcroft 2007_


End file.
